


They Didn't Fight in the Fielding

by kelly_chambliss



Category: Foyle's War
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-18
Updated: 2012-08-18
Packaged: 2017-11-12 10:42:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,461
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/490007
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kelly_chambliss/pseuds/kelly_chambliss
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>While on a fishing holiday, Christopher Foyle runs into Barbara Hicks, a woman from an old case.</p>
            </blockquote>





	They Didn't Fight in the Fielding

**Author's Note:**

> This story is based on an episode of the TV series _Foyle's War_ : [They Fought in the Fields](http://www.foyleswar.com/episodes/303/303summ.htm), about a murder involving members of the [Women's Land Army](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Land_girls) (aka "the Land Girls"), a corps of civilian women who volunteered as farm laborers while the men were off fighting. There was lovely UST between Foyle and one of the female characters in the episode, so I undertook to write a story to resolve the UST.
> 
> I think the fic should be clear even if you haven't seen the original episode, but if you're interested in seeing it, most of it is posted (in small chunks) on Youtube. Also, if you want to know more of the plot, the link above will give you a spoiler-heavy, complete synopsis.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

  
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**August, 1943**

He'd never expected to see her again, and not just because there was a war on. True, that was the reason she'd given in the note she'd written him -- said she had to move on for her war work and wasn't allowed to say where -- but Detective Chief Superintendent Foyle hadn't believed her.

He'd met her as part of a murder investigation, never the best of circumstances for a friendship, let alone anything more. She was a "pole spotter," or so she had told him: someone despatched to search the countryside for supple, straight-growing hardwood trees that could be used for poles and other war necessities. A useful job, no doubt, but hardly one that would be covered by the Official Secrets Act. There should have been no need for her to keep her whereabouts hidden.

So Foyle had concluded that she'd simply wanted an easy way to protect herself from the brief spark of attraction that had ignited between them. Or perhaps she was involved in intelligence, with pole-spotting merely a ruse.

Either way, he hadn't minded. Not really. At that point, he'd still been sufficiently wary of sexual sparks himself that he'd felt a good bit of relief mixed in with his mild regret. So he'd filed Barbara Hicks away under "opportunities not pursued" and gone about his business, of which he had more than enough. Even with a war on, domestic murder took no furloughs.

No, he'd never expected to see her again.

Yet here she was -- or at least, a woman named "Barbara Hicks" was signed into the register of the small hotel in which Foyle was spending his annual fly-fishing holiday. He'd been coming to the Fielding Arms every August for over fifteen years, and he saw no reason to vary his plans simply because he was now retired. . .and no longer had a career to take a holiday _from_.

The woman on the register could be a different Barbara Hicks, he supposed, but somehow he knew it wasn't -- something about the self-contained precision of that signature told him that this was "his" Barbara Hicks.

Foyle smiled to himself as the pronoun came unbidden to his mind. It wasn't one that she would let him use, that much was certain. And it wasn't the one he preferred, either. He'd never been a possessive man, nor would the Job have encouraged him to be -- he'd seen too many of the destructive consequences of human dependence and obsession to want to feel himself overly responsible for another person.

No, his wife Rosalind had been the only romantic commitment that he'd needed. They'd had a reasonably-long marriage, and a strong one, and now that she was dead, he felt no desire to replace her. The occasional moment of loneliness aside, he liked being able to go his own way, and Barbara Hicks had made clear that she felt the same.

Still, he realised that he wouldn't be opposed to spending a few hours in Mrs Hicks's presence, if she proved willing. It would mean nothing, of course; attraction or no attraction, he suspected that neither of them wanted the sort of complication in their lives that an affair of the heart would bring.

But some quiet conversation with a person whose company he thought he could enjoy -- that was something else again. The idea had its appeal.

Suddenly, Foyle found himself looking forward to that evening's dinner in the hotel's tiny dining room with more enthusiasm than the cuisine had so far warranted.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

But in the event, she didn't appear at dinner. Though Foyle had looked up in vague anticipation every time someone passed in the corridor outside the dining alcove, he'd seen only the usual sort of Fielding's guest: sedate older couples, the occasional military officer, or fishermen like himself, some of whom he recognised as fellow annual holiday-goers. When the final course -- a rather watery custard -- appeared, he'd accepted the fact that his meal would be a solitary one.

Or at least as solitary as possible given the proximity of the other diners. By the time he had listened to elderly Colonel Donahue's thoughts on the depravity of Germans and the difficulties of finding decent food and had agreed that rationing had taken its toll on what used to be quite a fine hotel table, what? ...and by the time he had, as firmly as he could without giving offense and as politely as he could without giving encouragement, turned down lonely Miss Eldridge's suggestion of a "postprandial stroll" -- his solitary dinner had not been very solitary at all.

But the meal had given him time to reconsider his earlier plans, and the more he thought about things, the more he thought that perhaps pursuing a friendship with Barbara Hicks would not be a good idea after all. Foyle was a man set in his ways, not looking for commitment, nor did he have any interest in simply using a woman to satisfy a momentary need.

Self-indulgence was never a good idea, especially in the area of sex -- had Barbara even been willing, which was unlikely in the extreme. Wasn't that the very charge she had leveled against all men the first time he'd spoken to her? That's how she'd described the murdered farmer -- "not too different from most men: rude, lazy, lascivious, and ignorant!"

Well, he was not about to prove her right, certainly not about "lascivious," at any rate. It had been a long time since Foyle had thought much about taking a woman to his bed or joining her in hers; he believed that part of his life had ended when Rosalind's life had ended. It wouldn't be the same with someone else, and he didn't miss it. Or so he told himself.

He headed to his room as soon as dinner concluded, refusing the Colonel's offer of a spot of whisky. He needed an early night -- trout-fishing might be one of the world's most relaxing occupations, but it still required rising at 4:30 a.m.

As he settled himself under the duvet, he decided that on the whole, he was satisfied with his solitary life, his solitary holiday. . .his solitary bed.

On the whole.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

  
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￼  
She'd recognised him the instant she'd seen him crossing the high street in front of the Fielding Arms. Detective Chief Superintendent Christopher Foyle, looking just as sombre and introspective as he had when she'd met him in the spring of 1941.

That time was still something of a blur to Barbara. Gerald had been dead less than a year then, and the pain of losing her son had made her more reckless in dealing with people, from the Land Girls to the police, than was usual.

Certainly the Barbara Hicks she knew best was not given to sobbing out personal details in the arms of an essentially unknown man, no matter how quiet and unobtrusive Foyle's sympathy had been. Nor was she prone to telling most men just how little she thought of their entire sex.

Yet she had done just that, on that long-ago afternoon under the trees. The memory could still make her smile. Even the imperturbable DCS Foyle had looked a bit taken aback when she'd accused him, like all men, of being rude and sex-mad. He'd said nothing, merely tipped his hat and thanked her for the interview, but the comment had bothered him, she was sure. She rather thought he'd taken pains to change her mind, in his own indirect way.

She'd fancied him, she could admit that now. Oh, not from the start. . .at the start, he'd been just another man in power, and she'd had quite enough of that sort to last her a lifetime, thank you. She'd had her husband, for one thing -- Malcolm, though he might as well have simply been named "Control."

Until Malcolm was out of her life, she hadn't let herself know just how much she had hated him. But then once the realisation had come, once the full feeling of the hatred had broken over her, she'd spent an entire day literally shaking with the strength of it.

After Malcolm, it had seemed far easier just to avoid the company of men as much as possible, and with so many of them gone off to war, she'd mostly been able to push them to the edges of her life. Until she'd stumbled into a murder. And met Detective Chief Superintendent Foyle.

And been attracted to the damned man.

So, late this afternoon, when she'd seen that same Superintendent Foyle striding toward her hotel, she'd impulsively turned and headed in the opposite direction.

She had intended to eat dinner at the Fielding Arms -- the evening meal was included in the room price, and she didn't have much in the way of money or ration coupons to spare -- but the thought of meeting Foyle unsettled her so much that she decided she could manage a few shillings for a pie and a pint at the small pub tucked into the end of the row of shops lining the main road. It would be a treat, she thought: she hadn't spent an evening just relaxing in a pub since before her marriage.

But the reality had been a disappointment. The food had been dismal -- any connection between her "pork" pie and actual pork seemed metaphorical -- and the place had been smoky and noisy. She'd found herself crammed at a small table near an American serviceman who kept jabbing her with his elbow every time he got up to head to the bar, his oft-repeated, broad-vowelled "sorry, ma'am" a constant reminder of just how different things were from the pre-war days.

Nor had the evening done anything to put Superintendent Foyle out of her mind. When she considered that she could so easily have exchanged the din of the pub for the possibility of a quiet conversation with an interesting, thoughtful companion. . .well, she regretted even more the impulse to waste her money in avoiding him.

She'd behaved like a silly schoolgirl who was too awkward to face a boy she liked, and she wasn't sure why. It wasn't as if Foyle would have presumed to add any romantic dimension to their acquaintance, even assuming he'd felt (as she was fairly sure he had) the brief heat between them two years before. She'd accused _him_ of being "lascivious," and here _she_ was, acting as if a passing, mild sexual attraction were the defining factor of their interactions.

In hindsight, of course, she knew what she should have done -- she should simply have talked to him. It would have been an ordinary, civil conversation, no strings.

She even had news to impart that he might find interesting. She'd learnt recently that Joan, the Land Army girl who had come under brief suspicion during the murder case, was doing well -- she was a mother now, with a healthy little girl, and her husband, at least at last report, had still been with his unit. Alive.

Foyle had liked Joan, Barbara thought -- an East End girl, scrappy and cheeky, trying to go straight. He'd seemed genuinely pleased when, towards the end of the murder investigation, Barbara had told him that Tom and Joan had become engaged. "That's good!" he'd said, his usually solemn face lighting with pleasure.

"Is it?" she'd asked, more sharply than she'd intended. They were in the middle of a war, for God's sake. The "good" didn't last, as he should well know. "But for how long?"

She'd been trying to needle him, she thought later -- to jolt him out of his unflappable calm. He'd been sitting alone in the churchyard near the Women's Institute, having absented himself from Joan's party, and Barbara had decided to breach his solitude by bringing him some refreshment.

It was a bit forward, perhaps, but she hadn't cared: she'd wanted to see what he was like when he was just a man, not a detective, and she was just a woman, not a potential suspect.

But he'd seemed quite as cautious and reserved as when he was on duty, and she realised that this _was_ the man -- reticent, self-contained. Unreachable.

She'd felt, somehow, that in approaching him, she'd made herself too vulnerable, and she'd wanted to make him expose something of himself in return. So she'd challenged his trite confidence in young love and had waited for him to snap back at her.

He hadn't, of course. To her question, "But for how long?" he'd merely cocked a considering eyebrow and replied, "Well. . .things the way they are, 'good for the time being' is perhaps enough?"

And he'd flashed his characteristic wry half-smile.

That's when she'd felt it: the surge of heat that was desire and that she'd never expected to feel again -- and for a man about whom she knew nothing. It surprised her at the same time that it didn't surprise her at all.

"What happened to you, then?" she'd asked, and unexpectedly, he'd actually answered, letting her know that their stories were almost the same: a marriage, a spouse, a son, a death. They'd both lost the things they'd loved: she a son, he a wife.

She'd understood, later, that in sharing his story, in allowing her to take the position of interrogator, he had been letting her know that Detective Chief Superintendent Foyle had stepped aside. He'd been allowing her to meet Christopher Foyle.

The gesture had left her intrigued but more than a little anxious, and when her order had come to move on, she had been willing to consider it for the best.

She had left Hastings without seeing Foyle -- either the DCS or the man -- again.

And now here he was, at an out-of-the-way hotel in Yorkshire, one of the last places she'd expect to see a Sussex detective.

Barbara made a small deal with herself: if he was in the minuscule snug that served the hotel as a bar, she'd speak to him. If he offered to buy her a drink, she would not say no. She'd been alone, and bitter, long enough.

But the bar contained only an elderly gentleman engaged in taking the barman to task over the amount of soda in his whisky.

Barbara retired to her room.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

  


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The morning yielded some fitful sunshine, plenty of time for introspection, and four fat trout that Foyle delivered to grateful manager of the Fielding Arms. "We'll set one aside for your dinner, sir," the manager said. "And you'll be making the Colonel very happy, which will make the staff even happier."

Foyle nodded, thinking of the hours to be filled before dinner. A bath, a book, perhaps a nap, a walk. . .just the sort of afternoon he'd always enjoyed on his holiday. But somehow the prospect seemed less appealing, now that his retirement had him facing a lifetime of such afternoons.

Not that he planned to remain idle, of course, not with a war on. He might try applying for government service again, he thought, or even the Home Guard. . .

His mind more on the future than the present, he didn't notice Barbara Hicks coming down the back stairs until he'd walked into her.

"Mrs Hicks!" he exclaimed, only too aware of the strong smell of fish clinging to his clothes. "My apologies, I fear I was wool-gathering. Please excuse me."

"Of course, Superintendent." Her voice was as crisp as he remembered, but unlike many of their previous interactions, she wasn't irritated. This time, she was smiling warmly, looking very much as she had on that last afternoon in Hastings, when they'd buried their hatchets and raised a toast to her newly-affianced young colleague.

And her hair was arranged in the same soft curls that had brushed against his face on that day in the woods, when he'd held her as she'd wept out some of her grief for her son.

He pushed the memory aside; the past was past. But the possibility of an enjoyable evening in the present was still open. And in any case, he didn't want to stand about conversing in the corridor, surrounded by _eau de trout._

"I hope I'll have the pleasure of seeing you at dinner this evening," he said, edging round her to move up the stairs.

"I'd like that," she replied.

And she sounded as if she genuinely would.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

The trout appeared on both their plates at dinner, small filets in sauce over potatoes; the four fish had clearly been stretched to serve as many guests as possible. But not even the thinness of the sauce could detract from the freshness of the fish, and Foyle ate with relish.

He and Barbara had reached first-name status by the end of the first course and had filled the time before the main course with small talk about their mutual acquaintances, staying safely with innocuous factual details. He mentioned his retirement only in passing, offering no explanation, nor did she ask for one. She mentioned her continuing work as a pole spotter without saying precisely where she was stationed; her presence in Yorkshire was explained merely as "a small holiday, my first since the war began."

Discussion of the food took up another few minutes, then they were occupied with eating, and then, as he at last put down his fork, the conversation stalled. Their mutual attraction had returned full-force, and Foyle knew they could both feel it, hovering over the table like a barrage balloon.

He thought of trying to ignore it, but realised that he didn't want to.

He saw now that all his careful rationalisations of the previous evening, about how he preferred solitude with no romantic complications, were just that: rationalisations. Yes, getting to know Barbara better would cause a complication in his life. There might be pain or unhappiness to come.

But he thought that he and Barbara Hicks could also bring each other joy, and in these days especially, that was something worth any number of complications.

He was debating how to proceed when Barbara took the problem out of his hands.

"I saw you yesterday, you know," she said. "And I deliberately avoided you."

"Oh?" said Foyle, keeping his voice carefully neutral so as not to reflect the sudden sinking in his stomach.

"Yes. I was afraid to talk to you, you see, because. . ." She paused and laid her fork across her plate. "Because the last time I'd seen you, I'd been attracted to you. And I wasn't sure I was ready for where that might lead. If, that is, either of us wants it to go anywhere at all." She met his eyes.

"I. . ." Foyle did not consider himself a man given to stammering, but neither was he accustomed to being propositioned by respectable women. And though he might be rusty in romance, he did know a proposition when he heard one.

He rather thought he liked it.

He kept Barbara's gaze and smiled. "Do you still have the green silk dress? The one you made out of the parachute?"

If she was surprised by the change of topic, she didn't show it. "Of course. Who can afford to get rid of any clothing these days? Let alone silk."

"I hope you'll wear it tomorrow evening."

Her lips quirked. "And what will I be doing tomorrow evening?"

"Being escorted to dinner and dancing by me. If you're so inclined."

She took a sip of coffee before she answered, but the pause was not a long one.

"I believe I lean in that direction, yes."

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

  


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￼Once she was back in her room, Barbara had to look in the mirror above the washstand to be sure that she was really herself -- Barbara Hicks, respectable, middle-aged, a woman with her feet firmly on the ground -- and not some unrecognisable, wanton flirt who had just brazenly offered herself to a virtual stranger.

She'd enjoyed dinner and conversation with Christopher Foyle more than she'd ever expected to. He'd been interesting, thought-provoking, drily humorous, and she had been comfortable in his company. No, more than comfortable: she'd felt energised, alive, and yes, she could admit it -- she'd felt aroused, all her senses heightened.

At the end of the meal, she'd watched him methodically place his knife and fork across the edge of his plate, and she suddenly yearned to experience that careful, precise touch on her own skin. She wanted to feel his hands on her body, his lips against hers, and she had to look down hastily at her own plate, lest he see the desire blazing in her face.

 _Stop it_ , she told herself fiercely. _This is mad, bad, and dangerous. I can't..._

But then for the life of her, she couldn't think why not. Why couldn't she take a man to her bed if she chose? She was no blushing innocent about to be debauched; she was an experienced woman, answerable to no one but herself. She need fear no scandal -- no one knew her here in Yorkshire, and at forty-five, she hardly needed to worry about unplanned consequences.

She could do as she pleased. Without giving herself a chance to think better -- or worse -- of her plan, she set about putting it into practice. There was no time to be lost, for she'd be leaving in just a few days, two or maybe three, she didn't know for certain. But she did know that she wouldn't be here, at the Fielding Arms, for long.

She hadn't been completely open with Christopher about her occupation. A pole-spotter she might legitimately be, but she was also a courier, recruited to minor espionage by Gerald's old commanding officer. She moved small packages -- formulae? orders? battle plans? She didn't know and never asked -- from place to place, handing them off to anonymous men (and sometimes women) as per instructions.

She was here now because she'd been told to await a drop in Yorkshire. For all she knew, it could come tomorrow, and she'd have to move on after only a night or two longer in Foyle's presence.

So, no. There was no time to waste.

"I saw you yesterday, you know," she said to Christopher.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

The green silk dress had suffered only slightly from being stowed in her hold-all; with all her moving-about, she'd got skilled at wrinkle-free packing. When she took the gown out of the wardrobe the next evening, the fabric slipped easily over her head and fell to whisper around her calves. Barbara always thought that there was nothing quite like silk to make a woman feel her best.

The dress looked almost as fresh as it had when new -- she'd had little opportunity to wear it, and the fabric was of excellent quality. The waist was nicely-fitted, the bodice was just low enough to be interesting, and all in all, Barbara thought, giving herself a once-over in the glass as she finished pinning up her hair. . .she was ready.

She met the DCS in the lobby. "You look very nice," he said, which she thought probably counted as high praise; Foyle clearly was no man for hyperbole.

"It helped me solve the case, you know," he went on. "Your dress."

"My dress?"

"Well, rather the source of the dress. When you told me that the parachute had been undamaged, that fact suggested that it hadn't been used. Which meant that the man who hadn't used it -- but said that he had -- wasn't quite what he'd seemed."

Barbara laughed, pleased. "Glad to be of service. You know what they say about us Land Girls: always ready to do our bit."

"So I've heard," Foyle replied, his smile suggesting that he was pleased, too.

The restaurant he took her to was subdued, with unobtrusive service and a reasonable band. The food, she believed, was decent, though in truth, she didn't remember much of it. What she did remember was the soothing timbre of Christopher's voice and the warmth of his hands as they guided her around the small dance floor. As a dancer, he was only just competent, but as a partner, he was all she needed.

They walked back to the Fielding Arms afterward, her hand tucked into the crook of his elbow, his fingers resting lightly atop hers, and when they reached the door of her room and he bent to kiss her, she was more than ready to lean into his embrace.

He didn't resist when she took his hand and led him inside.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Christopher was a considerate lover, as she'd known he would be. As Malcolm had never been.

His kisses at the start were gentle, almost tentative, mere light brushes against her lips and throat as he slipped his fingers into her hair. He disengaged the pins lightly, letting the curls tumble softly about her face.

Her breathing quickened; she felt her body begin to throb deliciously, and she moaned a bit as Christopher drew her closer, her breasts pressing against his chest. "Yes," she murmured, pulling back a little so that she could loosen his tie.

He stiffened, making her anxious, but then he smiled. "Sorry," he said, touching her cheek. "It's been a while. . ."

Barbara smiled backed, charmed. "Hasn't it, though?" 

They undressed each other slowly, and she feared at first that he might be too reverent. But once they were atop the narrow bed, he grew bolder, strong, assured, alternating feathery touches with pressure in just the right places, until she was gasping aloud and arching against him, giving way to a shiver of excitement as she felt his hardness alongside her thigh.

He gasped in his turn as she took him in her hands to guide him inside her. She felt some pain -- it _had_ been a long time -- but he went slowly, waiting for her to adjust, meeting her eyes directly before closing his and kissing her.

Then he began to move, and soon she was rocking with him, stroking his back, curling her legs round his, tasting pleasure like a long-postponed sweet.

It was over more quickly than she might have wished, but afterward, they lay comfortably together, limbs entwined. She felt gently sore and pleasantly sleepy as Christopher leant over her to switch off the bedside light and raise the black-out shade at the head of the bed before setting down beside her once more

Soon moonlight silvered the bed and their bodies, and Barbara turned to nestle against Christopher's chest. He was warm and solid, and he held her close.

She didn't know what the future would bring, whether they would see each other again or would part forever in the morning, but she found that she didn't care. Just now, life was good.

And things being the way they were, "good for the time being" was enough.

  


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